


Chasing a Lucid Nightmare

by Hedonick



Series: BfA/SL: Interludes [3]
Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Dalaran, Forgotten Crypt, Gen, Riddles, Ulduar, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28156191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedonick/pseuds/Hedonick
Summary: As a former paladin, Naethir Dawncaller still struggles with some of the changes which accompanied his resurrection as a death knight. When he gets approached by a stranger with an unusual quest, he sees in it a chance to try and smooth out some bumps in the road that lies behind him. He sets out on a paper chase which leads him across whole Azeroth, but first he decides to confront his younger brother Orthorin in the hope to remind him of their family ties.
Series: BfA/SL: Interludes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041546





	Chasing a Lucid Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back!  
> This is the third part of my second series, which takes place after the events mentioned in the previous one (BfA: Biografies); in between Patch 8.3 and Shadowlands Pre-Patch 9.0.1.  
> This episode will focus once gain on my death knight main. It will further illustrate his background and prepare his story for what is to come in the Shadowlands…

When Naethir stepped out of the portal from the Eastern Earthshrine, the heat and unpleasant humidity of Ramkahen crushed into him like a physical attack, despite his reduced sensitivity for climatic conditions. For a brief moment he regretted his decision to come here, while the sun was still fully up, but then again, this move enhanced the chances for his plan to succeed. If even he, as a death knight, was reluctant to endure these conditions, the army wouldn’t be out yet to fight the Amathet, who regularly besieged the Forge of Origination.

Determinedly he walked towards the military encampment behind Ramkahen, where King Phaoris had allowed the Alliance forces to set up their base. Several clusters of different tents and canopies, surrounded by a rather improvised but nonetheless guarded stockade, sprawled between the Vir’naal Oasis and the Seal of the Sun King, the constructions further out in the sands shimmering in the hot air. There wasn’t much movement to be spotted, most soldiers had probably sought shelter from the heat in the shadow and preserved their strengths for the fighting during the cooler hours of day.

As someone obviously not belonging to the army forces, Naethir wasn’t allowed to simply walk into the encampment and so a recruit had to run back and forth twice, ultimately receiving the order to escort the death knight to his destination. He almost felt sorry for the by now heavily sweating young human, when they finally advanced on a tent distinctly marked with the insignia belonging to an Alliance lieutenant. Beneath the awning behind the main tent, the older of his twin brothers awaited him in a stiff posture.

Only after the formal, temporary dismissal of the recruit, Orthorin addressed him: “I hope you didn’t actually expect me to stroll out of camp on your calling to have some private conversation. I’m on duty and the times when you could order me about as my older brother have passed. What do you want from me, honorary Deathlord?”

Naethir had to keep himself from frowning while he examined the other void elf. The younger Dawncaller made an impressive figure. Nothing of his attire or expression hinted at any inconvenience in the accommodation of his troop: his beard was neatly trimmed, his blue hair looked freshly washed and his uniform was unwrinkled and strictly buttoned up. If it weren’t for the sweat soaked patches on his collar and beneath his armpits, one could have thought his brother was as unaffected by the heat as he himself. Naethir was still amazed by how far and fast the monk had risen in the military ranks over merely the duration of the past war against the Horde and now against the Old God. A lot of responsibility and obligations had been placed upon his shoulders in a short time, but Orthorin seemed to bear them well. However, less impressive than his demeanor were his words. Even after Saewron’s portrayal and his former attempts to reach out to the other twin, Naethir hadn’t expected such a cold reception, but he also hadn’t come unprepared.

“No, I’m not here to slug out some brotherly power play I’m frankly not interested in anymore”, Naethir quickly fought off the implicit accusation, “A civilian has approached me with a strange request and I hoped you would be willing to advise me, since I know its nature appeals much more to you than to me.”

Orthorin raised the brow above the one eye that wasn’t covered by an eye patch, “What’s that request?” “My client wants me to solve a riddle, which he assumes will lead to some kind of... treasure. He isn’t even interested in that reward though, only in the solution of the riddle itself.”

Naethir fished out the note he’d made back in Dalaran and held it out to the monk. As hoped, the part of his younger brother which loved opportunities to prove his ability to reason still existed in the stern lieutenant and now lead him to accept the note. The death knight crossed his arms in front of his chest, producing a metallic clanking when his gauntlets touched his breastplate, and eyed the musing void elf expectantly.

–.o.O.o.–

When Naethir had first been approached by his so called _client_ back in Dalaran above the Broken Isles, he’d never thought that he would later on label the obviously mad gnome that way. That he’d been in Dalaran in the first place was unusual, since nowadays Boralus or Stormwind were the important capitals, but after another frustrating training session, during which he suddenly wasn’t able to recall anymore how to perform some spells he’d used in previous fights without any problems, Lord Thorval had suggested a relaxing stroll through Dalaran to him.

Supposedly Deathlord Avadel, the female draenei whose soul had been merged with his own in order to make his resurrection possible had spent a lot of time in the city during the past invasion of the Burning Legion. Hence the other Ebon Blade expected that views of the place and its inhabitants would trigger familiar memories, allowing him to access Avadel’s knowledge once more. That was always everyone’s favorite advice: go there, do that – and you will remember. But with increasing certainty Naethir suspected that Avadel simply didn’t want to share some of her memories with him, at least not on a reliable scale. Maybe it would be easier if the other Ebon Blade just treated him like a bloody new recruit, but when they had tried that before, it had usually been the moment when he’d suddenly recalled things, turning the intended training into a joke.

However, since he hadn’t known anything else to do either, he’d followed the advice of the fellow death knight and had taken the portal from Acherus’ lower floor to the floating city. Still upset by the earlier experience, he hadn’t really payed any attention to his surroundings, when suddenly an unpleasantly high-pitched voice had called out:

“You! You there, death knight, you will listen to me! You are one of them... those void elves. You can hear them, too, right? The whispers! You know they are telling the truth!”

He’d halted and turned, looking for the source of the sound and found it in a middle aged gnome, standing on top of the stairs in front of the shop called _Curiosities_ _&_ _Moore_. He also incidentally noticed that immediately the people around him and mainly the small shouting figure started to give them a wide berth.

Before he’d been able to decide how to react, the gnome had jumped down into the street and hurried to him, pushing on one of his legs to steer him into the direction of the staircase to the shop entrance.

“You have to come with me. You will understand!”

“Understand what? And who are you?”, Naethir asked, reluctantly letting himself be dragged along.

“Gilner, Gilner Greymoss”, the gnome introduced himself with the same fervent intonation he’d spoken in from the start, “You have to help me! The others don’t believe me, but you know the whispers, too!”

By now, Gilner, realizing that Naethir actually followed him, had hurried ahead, up the stairs straight to the left inside the shop. The death knight had darted an apologetic look at Debbi Moore, the owner of the shop, who had watched them warily, but had made no move to interfere, before he’d mounted the stairs himself.

“Look, here”, the gnome had gestured at the table in the hallway of the first floor, “That note. It appeared out of nowhere. The whispers are telling me it’s a secret, but I need to know what it means! Its a key. The whispers know everything!”

Relenting, Naethir had taken a look at the strange note. _It begins in the 2104059. With a most pleasing sign. (These letters will not always rhyme.)_

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, because it’s a riddle!”, Gilner had insisted, “The whispers say it’s important! I already told the other priests, but ever since I started talking to the Void, they don’t like me anymore. They threw me out of the temple! But I know that I’m right. The whispers are right! I need the answer but I don’t know how!” Honest desperation had by now joined the gnome’s fervor, “You will help me, won’t you? You know, too! Nobody else is listening to me, but we need to solve the riddle or something bad is going to happen Something very, very bad!”

While the gnome had still been staring at him with brightly gleaming eyes, slightly panting from his speech and awaiting the void elf’s answer nervously, Naethir had wanted nothing more than to tell Gilner that he was mad and that he should stop listening to the whispers, since they – in fact – told everything except the truth, but at the same time he’d known that he wouldn’t achieve anything that way. He’d started to feel sorry for the little guy, since he knew first-hand how the whispers could twist one’s mind.

Maybe he actually was in a position to ease the gnome’s distress at least for a little while. It wasn’t as if there was much else to do for him. As long as his combat abilities seesawed like the flame of a candle in the wind, he couldn’t join any serious fighting and his efforts within the Horrific Visions could be continued anytime at a later date. Whereas the gnome’s request gave him a good excuse – since sadly he seemed to need one – to take another shot at talking to Orthorin.

–.o.O.o.–

“That’s little to work with”, his brother noted after a while, but then elaborated: “The first part is most likely the key. And since the last sentence says that the whole riddle doesn’t rhyme all the time; I’d rearrange the numbers. I guess they hint at some special coordinates or a date, but on the fly I can’t figure out anything more telling.” With that, he held the paper between two fingers out to Naethir once again.

The death knight received it with a pleased smile. “I knew bringing this to you would be a good decision. You were already able to make more use of those lines than I. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it”, the monk replied in an offhanded manner and then examined him skeptically. “But what are you going to do with that information now?”

This was going to be the hard part. Naethir felt his tension rise, but tried to keep his voice casual. “Well, I actually hoped you’d feel intrigued by that little foretaste and could be persuaded to join me in solving the whole riddle. I don’t expect that those coordinates or that date will already be the resolution. There will probably be some follow-up riddles.”

Orthorin’s usually blankly kept expression was replaced by disbelief and he gave off a short laugh. “And how did you envision that? That I would just walk out on my troop”, he gestured towards the encampment surrounding them, “in the middle of a war, to help you with some puzzles?”

“No! Certainly not”, Naethir hastily responded, “That would be absurd.” He silently cursed the heat, which obviously affected his brains. He should have approached this the other way around. In an attempt to still save his idea, he explained: “I thought of this as a good joint activity for some days off duty to... reconnect after everything that happened.”

“Forget it!”, the older twin immediately warded off the proposal.

“Why?!”

For a moment the death knight’s frantic exclamation hung between them in the hot air, amplified by the temperature induced silence of the camp.

“For one thing, I told my superiors to postpone all my days off duty until this war is over”, Orthorin begun to state his reasons in pointed sobriety, “And for another thing; there is nothing to reconnect, as I told you before.”

“You did. I simply don’t understand why”, the death knight shook his head in frustration and afterwards automatically brushed back the stringy black strands of hair that had thereby fallen into his face, “I can remember how _Ann’da_ always told us of the importance of a family, to support each other in their lives!”

“Yes”, the monk agreed, before his voice grew harder, “But you two don’t offer anything to support me and I’m done supporting you any more than I still do. Blood ties are all well and good, but they also have limits and I won’t let them hamper me.” A wry smirk appeared on his lips. “If you and Saewron want to show me your support that badly, you two could always join the army and this war”, he shrugged, “But I wouldn’t expect you to make it far. No soldier needs a comrade in arms that can’t properly control his own powers and is as likely to bring death upon his allies and himself as to the enemy.”

The audacity of his brother’s reproval rendered Naethir speechless, but swiftly consternation overtook the feeling. “How can you say something like that?!”

“Like what? I’m only stating facts.”

“That’s not what I meant!”, the monks callousness spurned his frustration, “Family isn’t about combat support.”

That didn’t impress Orthorin in the least. “Nice words and hugs aren’t going to help the ren’dorei or beat our foes inside Ny’alotha. And those are the things that matter now.”

The death knight halted his retort when he became aware of footsteps and the clanking of plate armor behind him.

“Is something the matter here, Sir? The discussion sounded intense”, a rough voice asked.

Naethir turned halfway and lay eyes on a male worgen with broad shoulders that looked as if they were used to carrying a massive shield which was currently absent, though.

“Just a chat between brothers”, Orthorin played down their conversation and then addressed Naethir: “May I introduce you? Sergeant Valentian Blackwood, my second in command. I asked him to come here to discuss our battle strategies for next week, before you dropped by unannounced, so….”

“Yes, yes. I’ll have to excuse you. War plans have precedence”, the death knight promptly got the hint, remembering his brother’s former words of dismissal. “But don’t expect this discussion to be over. You won’t chase me away as easily as Saew. Me, you can hurt all you want. We death knights thrive on pain and suffering.”

A twitch of his jaw distorted the monks otherwise controlled features for a second and his shoulders slumped slightly.

So he wasn’t completely indifferent to how his behavior affected them. Reassuring to know, but despite this insight, Naethir wasn’t quite happy about how his words had turned out. Too challenging. And it seemed he wasn’t the only one who had noticed this.

The worgen gave off a low growl and then barked: “Hailey, show our lieutenant’s brother out!”

Naethir had to bite back a sharp comment about guard dogs, but it wouldn’t do any good to offend the sergeant. Instead he nodded his farewell towards Orthorin and then followed the recruit without putting up any resistance. In the end, the worgen hadn’t meant any harm with his interference and the death knight’s upset was mostly directed at himself; he shouldn’t have let himself get distracted. There had been something in Rin’s words….

He looked back towards the monk who was pinching the bridge of his nose and then decisively shook his head as an answer to something the worgen said, before he straightened up, clapping a hand on his second’s shoulder and steering him towards the table beneath the awning.

When Orthorin had said that thing about comrades in arms, there had resonated more than sarcasm or arrogance in his voice; maybe a hint of… fear? Naethir wasn’t sure. Something else was obvious though; in terms of combat support, Orthorin had definitely found himself a new family within the army. And he wasn’t wrong with his reproaches. Naethir’s combat skills weren’t ready to be tested in a serious environment. An additional reason why he liked the Horrific Visions; if he died in there, suddenly forgetting how to use his skills or overestimating his strength, the only bad thing that happened was that he had to start over again with the scenario, but no one actually got hurt. Saewron on the other hand…. The death knight suspected that Orthorin underestimated his twin regarding his fighting power, but the military still undeniably would have been the wrong place for the rogue. He was by far too kindhearted for a life of constant battle. Naethir felt a touch of amusement: there probably weren’t a lot of people who could link a skilled assassin to such an assessment in good earnest. However, ultimately the correctness of the monks words wasn’t the point. There were other sorts of support to be given by a family and Naethir could only hope that the older twin would remember this, in case he ever needed it.

Standing outside the stockade, the death knight stared down at the note Orthorin had given him back. It looked like his plan hadn’t worked after all. Disappointed he crumpled the small sheet in his hand and was about to toss it into a heap of sand some way off when he remembered the desperate face of Gilner Greymoss, staring up at him.

He sighed, drawing back the arm he’d already started to wind up and unfolded the paper once more. _2104059._ Coordinates or a date, Orthorin had said. Maybe Saewron would know something. At least respecting dates, the book-worm would probably be quite well informed.

With that, Naethir set his mind and closed his eyes for a brief moment to collect himself, before he started to channel his Death Gate, which would allow him a quick return to Acherus and to continue his journey from there. At least that spell he manged reliably by now.

–.o.O.o.–

The next day, Naethir flew alone on the back of his Icebound Frostbrood Vanquisher through the Storm Peaks towards Ulduar. Although he and Saewron had pored over books for the most part of the evening yesterday, it hadn’t been the rogue’s suggestions that had yielded a result regarding the numbers of the riddle in the end. Instead, a detailed map of Northrend in one of the books had triggered an abrupt… feeling in Naethir’s mind. He couldn’t explain why, but all of a sudden he’d been convinced that the numbers had something to do with the titan-forged stronghold that lay empty since back in Lich King Arthas’ days.

He still expected to come across additional obstacles, if the old raid was actually the place the riddle lead to, but he had decided against asking Saewron to accompany him. In case there was another puzzle the younger twin would maybe be able to assist him with, he’d surely ask, but he didn’t wanted to pull the rogue away from his books. He knew this behavior. It had been the same after the destruction of the Sunwell by the Scourge. Obviously the rogue was troubled, but he’d also found a way to deal with it, at least temporarily, and since Naethir couldn’t support him otherwise for now, he would at least not intrude on his sanctuary.

Finally, his destination came into view: a massive stronghold, built of titan stone and covered in snow like the whole region, with five tall towers of various heights, separated from the rest of the Storm Peaks by a deep, insuperable chasm – if not for his winged mount.

Naethir flew directly towards the highest of the towers and soon reached the massive doorway that lead into the old raid. The usual magical pull gripped him and twisted his stomach when he entered the passage, but a few seconds later he stood on a wide, paved terrace that hugged the flank of the mountain.

He let his gaze sweep across the scenery, taking in the shade-like echos of the creatures that had once been fought here. His skin prickled faintly from all the remnants of the magic that had been cast in this location and still upset the flow of time, weaving it partially into patterns long past. Naethir carefully drew the rune forged sword from his back, holding it at the ready. The symbols along its blade started to glow, shrouding it in blueish light. He slowly made his way across the platform, easily brushing aside the echos of the past with basic swordplay, while keeping his eyes open for any sort of anomaly.

In the Scrapyard he eventually found what he was looking for. On one of the scrap piles in the corners of the room was a lever located, which he didn’t remember from his visits in the past. Naethir was surprised he even noticed it; he’d usually not been someone who spent a lot of attention on the inanimate parts of his surroundings during a fight, but maybe… it weren’t purely his own memories.

He couldn’t tell for sure. Most of the time it was like this; at least with those scenes in his mind which were partially his own. The holes in his memory were simpler to identify, but to become aware of them always made him uneasy. Most of them were limited to the time between his arrival with the Argent Crusade in Northrend and his death. Ulduar was one of the first holey periods in his mind; he knew that he’d been here and he was certain that he himself had fought against these foes, but every enemy after Kologarn was a strangely distant experience, particularly the fight against the Old God Yogg-Saron in the end.

In comparison, what had happened during the Trial of the Crusader and in the Icecrown Citadel was much clearer to him, as well as the time of the Cataclysm and the work he’d done with the Argent Crusade in the Plaguelands. After that… he was fairly certain he’d been to Pandaria, and he had lively memories of the Siege on Orgrimmar, but in between: nothing reliable. Worst was the time he and his father had spent chasing after Garrosh and the Iron Horde in Draenor. He recalled his assistance in building a garrison in Shadowmoon Valley and much later the assault on the Hellfire Citadel, but he could as well not have been there, so little of those memories actually felt like his own. That they had already fought against the Burning Legion in these times – and with success – was like a strange dream to him.

Completely different, then again, was the period afterwards: the battle for the Broken Shore and everything related to it – memories he’d gladly done without – and his utter impotence in dealing with the influences of the Void, apart from his one desperate and cowardly choice in the end, which hadn’t even been the actual end – for him leastwise. The oldest memories, the ones of his childhood and his days of youth seemed more or less intact. Small bits were probably still missing, but it was nothing impactful. He knew that he’d loved his family; his mother, especially his heroic father, but also his two little brothers.

Another reason why he would protect them with everything he got; they belonged to that part of his life which felt the most solid, the most real, where he was absolutely sure who he had been, and who he wanted to be.

With the same determination, he now pulled the lever in front of him and rose, battle ready.

The only thing that happened though, was a mechanic whir accompanying the appearance of many tiny lights on the floor of the scrapyard. He carefully climbed down from the unstable pile and then warily inspected the bulbs, which could be turned on and off again freely. Puzzled, he stepped back and regarded the square field of lights in front of him, absentmindedly scratching his wiry chin beard.

He felt quite out of place. Solving riddles really wasn’t his kind of activity; he would have preferred to battle with some enemy, despite the lack of assurance in his new combat skills. Still, the view reminded him of something; in the Borean Tundra there had been an area inhabited by gnomes and equipped with an airstrip for flying machines which had been marked by similar bulbs. _With a most pleasing sign_ , the riddle had said. The bulbs of the airstrip had been used to signal the flying machines where to land; maybe he had to use these bulbs here to form another kind of signal. But which?

He looked around in search of some clue until his gaze caught the lever he’d pulled before, which jutted out of the head of a broken mechagnome. And what was the favorite sign of those creatures? Gear. It certainly was worth a try… or two… or three. He gave off a self-ironic snort. Drawing wasn’t quite his kind of activity either.

Indeed, it took some time until the death knight managed to form a pattern looking similar to a gear, using the glowing tiny lights on the floor, but then, suddenly, all the bulbs flashed once more, before they disappeared completely. Out of nowhere, a note not unlike the one back in Dalaran appeared in the middle of the former square field.

He had been right, in more than one respect! Naethir felt an uncommon pang of pride in himself. Orthorin would probably be very surprised by his achievement here, if he ever had the opportunity to tell the younger brother of his further experience with the riddle.

Curiously he walked over and picked up the new note, unrolling it. _1000 years imprisoned. Surely it weigh_ _s_ _on the mind._ His first thought was of N’Zoth, but something about it didn’t feel right. Since nothing else came to his mind though, he pocketed the note and begun once again to cast a Death Gate. At any rate, it looked like he was done here. About time to leave this place, so haunted by the past.

–.o.O.o.–

Five days later, Naethir stood in front of the Forgotten Crypt near Karazhan in Deadwind Pass. The fact that the magical barrier, formerly existing around the place according to reports, had obviously vanished – at least to him – was enough of an indication to awaken a short boost of anticipation in him.

This would be the final step. _The way is now open. To the greatest secret never told. A fitting end to your journey_ , the last note had stated. He hadn’t even been aware of such a secret until yesterday, when after his almost never ending trip through the maze of the Endless Halls and his finding of the last riddle, he had come across this clue with the help of a small book about conspiracy theories, found at _Curiosities & Moore_ of all things.

And now, here he was. After this long journey, which – after Ulduar – had lead him onward to the even older raid of Ahn’Qiraj, then down to Deepholm, from there to Gnomeregan, Val’sharah and to the Kun-Lai Summit, where he’d found the Tomb of Secrets and the entry to the Endless Halls, containing the last episode of the riddle. In hindsight it was now obvious that the whole trip had been some kind of ritual, eventually allowing him to pass through the magical barrier here.

Naethir reached for his bags, picking out one of the torches he had acquired as a matter of prudence and brought it to life with a spark of his flint. Then he undauntedly descended the stairs into the crypt. They ended in an astonishingly wide room. Some kind of altar was located to his left, surrounded by three groups of fel-green burning candles. Maybe the place wasn’t as forgotten as the name indicated. Still more interesting to the death knight was the corridor opposite the stairs, which seemed to lead deeper downward. A careful look at the still sturdy wooden beams overhead assured him that there was no immediate danger of being buried alive during his exploration, before he continued on his path.

The further he went, the more musty and damp the air smelled. At one point he abruptly had to stop himself from reveling in it, after he’d realized that he’d unconsciously started to breath in deeper, one part of him clearly enjoying the circumstances which would have unsettled most other people. No, he reminded himself harshly, exploring dark and stuffy catacombs was _not_ pleasant! Still, he couldn’t keep himself from marveling at the magnitude of the structure that had been concealed by the unremarkable crypt entrance. It dawned on him that it wouldn’t be quite as easy as he’d expected to find what he was looking for.

It still amazed him that he’d even come this far. Sure, he’d had help which pointed him into the right direction from time to time, like Orthorin, Saewron and also his colleagues from the Knights of the Ebon Blade, but he’d still managed a good deal of the puzzles by himself. Well, more than once he hadn’t exactly _solved_ the riddles; he’d outmanoeuvered them with pure stubbornness, endurance and also a good deal of luck. Like the one in Gnomeregan, where he’d simply started to try out every code possible that could be entered into the machinery; or at the maze of the Endless Halls, where he hadn’t reflected about a possible purpose behind the arrangement of the single rooms, but instead had just kept moving along for what felt like an eternity, refusing to give up until he’d found every orb and their correspondingly colored rune.

After he’d already searched several burial chambers, Naethir reached the source of the damp smell: in front of him lay – judging by the lack of any side walls that could be seen in the light of his torch – a huge, subjacent room that had been flooded with water. Great!

He reached for his bags once more, rummaging about until his fingers found what he’d been looking for. He pulled out the necklace and slipped it over his head, before he slid into the artificial underground lake. The light of the torch – protected from getting wet in the same way as the rest of him, thanks to the magical necklace – didn’t reach as far as before, but it was enough to spot multiple not fully decayed corpses around him, drifting in the water without motion, held in place by iron chains. His lack of irritation at the sight disquieted him slightly while he dove deeper towards a passage at the floor of the flooded room. Quite some time before the urge to take another breath of air overcame him, the death knight broke the surface of the water, entering a so far unexplored area of the sprawling catacombs.

Now that he’d started to think closely about it, he suddenly wasn’t sure anymore to which extent he’d actually been himself over the course of these last days. That he’d gone looking for help with the strange puzzles whenever he’d had the opportunity; yes, that was him. He hadn’t exactly been bad in school or anything, but he had never liked unnecessary complicated stuff like math exercises with variables… or riddles. But the tenacity with which he’d pursued the resolutions of the puzzles…. He was quite certain that he’d always been persistent in everything related to swordplay and his apprenticeship or duties as a paladin, but would he have spent several days of his time with the answering of some enigmatic secret? Probably not… or would he?

The thought made Naethir falter in his steps. Almost instantly the usually utter silence of the place regained the upper hand over the previous, echoing crunching of bones and gravel beneath his boots. He stared down at his unoccupied hand, flexing its fingers, almost expecting them to resist his will. They didn’t. But what if they would, some day? If he couldn’t fully trust his motivations, could he trust his body?

This was one of the unpleasant parts of his resurrection: sometimes he just wasn’t sure anymore if he acted based on his own impulses, or those of the other soul within him. His problem wasn’t that this other soul existed, it was the uncertainty of her power over his life. If only he could talk to her directly! But no. Ever since this first night at the Ebon Hold, she hid somewhere inside his mind, refusing to communicate with him! Why?!

The lack of understanding and frustration suddenly made him lash out, smashing his fist against the solid stone wall of the crypt so hard he felt his knuckles bruise beneath the gauntlet. The sound of the impact shattered the silence and sent its echos through the empty stone halls. Sharp pain shot up Naethir’s arm, immediately accompanied by a hint of... satisfaction. Its existence almost made him throw up at the same time as it tempted him to repeat his action. He resisted both urges, but couldn’t suppress a disgusted shiver.

Death knights were such twisted, perverted creatures. How was it possible for anyone to somehow sustain themselves through the infliction of pain and suffering? The first time he’d wholeheartedly realized what he had become, he’d sworn to himself he would never allow himself to start feeling any joy in harming others. That was the least he could do to remember himself of what he had once been: a herald of the light, sworn to protect the innocent, like his father had done it his whole life.

Following this thought, bone deep shame and humiliation overcame him. What would his father think of him, if he could see him now? But he’d brought this upon himself. Ever since his decision to try and use the powers of the Void back on the Broken Isles, his whole existence had become a lucid nightmare. He deserved it. He had been weak and he had disappointed his paragon. Now he had to deal with the consequences.

He straightened determinedly and angrily wiped the tears from his cheeks. He was done letting people down. Now he finally had to find out what the ultimate secret behind all these riddles had been, and then he would continue with the atonement of his past failings. He’d known what awaited him when he’d accepted the Lich King’s offer and he did _not_ regret this choice. Thanks to it, he still had a chance to make it all right again… or most of it, at least. He couldn’t bring the dead back to life – at least not in that way. But he would continue with his mission to protect the innocent, most of all Orthorin and Saewron, and to be able to do that, he had to embrace his new fate, whether Avadel cooperated with him or not.

He went on, entering another astonishingly wide room. In one corner, a huge pile of bones rose almost to the ceiling and on top of it rested a glimmering, black box with a purple rune inscribed on its lid. With some difficulties – to climb the unstable mound proved harder then one would expect – he eventually managed to get a hold of the special container.

Embedded in a pad of black velvet, it held a small silver flute, similar to the one he used to call his Icebound Frostbrood Vanquisher, formed in the shape of a face screaming in horror. When Naethir’s gaze fell upon the inscription on the eerie whistle, stating the name of the mount it would summon, an uncontrolled laugh gripped him that didn’t sound completely sane even to his own ears.

–.o.O.o.–

Blinking in the bright sunlight and breathing in the fresh midday air back in the open, Naethir shook off more than the gloom of the crypt. Feeling a hint of his earlier pleasure about the completion of his riddle journey, he examined the whistle in his hand once more with equal skepticism and curiosity. He couldn’t guess what form of mount would appear simply judging by its strange name, so he would have to find out.

He lifted the flute to his lips and blew, eliciting only an inaudible sound from the small object which was almost immediately answered by an echoing whinny. From somewhere off, a black and purple, horse-like animal appeared, galloping into his direction. A short distance in front of the death knight the creature with its single, curved horn at its forehead halted abruptly, but continued to dance skittishly in place, shaking its voluminous black mane. It was beautiful. Different from a normal horse, its frame was slim like a stag’s, and its fur was shaggier with long hair around its ankles, which – like the tip of its tail – gave off a purple glow.

However, when Naethir stepped towards it, the animal snorted in distress, backed off a few steps and then rose to its hind legs, rotating once about its own center, kicking the air with its hooves. The death knight wasn’t actually surprised by the mount’s reaction.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m not quite the lovely maiden you probably hoped for to carry around”, he said in a soothing tone of voice. “But to be honest, I don’t think your coat would go well with such a rider anyway.”

By now he was used to this reception from animals. Ever since his resurrection, he’d confined himself to riding undead mounts for that reason. Even Saewron’s little pet fox wasn’t yet ready to allow his touch. At least she didn’t try to bite him anymore, if he got too close for her comfort. His dear brother had been quite shocked by the unusual behavior of his furry companion, but after Naethir’s explanation that animals in general seemed to be upset by his undead nature, the rogue had – with some disappointment – forgone any further attempts to bring Tulu near him.

“Maybe we two could at least try to get along”, the death knight pulled off his gauntlet and slowly extended his hand towards the exceptional unicorn, “After all the hassle I went through to get that whistle… and we would make quite a fitting couple. Don’t you think?”

As if in answer, the animal snorted, pranced some more and seemed to evaluate him for a while with its dark, intelligent eyes. Then, slowly – more gingerly than hesitantly – it moved its head towards his hand, until its nostrils almost touched his fingers.

Naethir remained unmoving, giving the creature its time. Where the breath from its nostrils met his bare skin, an unexpected prickling set in. Some breaths later, the animal finally nudged his hand briefly, but then – maybe spooked by its own courage – abruptly turned and trotted off a few steps, before looking back at the death knight.

“I guess it’s a start.” Naethir forced a smile to his lips, pulling back his still tingling hand. Only when he reached to scratch it, he suddenly remembered. Surprised, he stared at his knuckles. Where the skin had been bruised or even broken before, after he had injured himself down in the crypt, it was now newly mended.

“Oh! Thank you!” He lifted his gaze back to the unicorn in amazement, which now uttered another whinny before it took off. “Yeah, take some time to consider my words. Maybe next time we can even get you to let me pat your neck.” He actually felt confident. An impressive mount, indeed.

He rubbed the small whistle with his thumb before he put it into one of his pockets. Gilner Greymoss would be very surprised that his incredibly important secret had turned into a black and purple unicorn. But, as promised, the death knight was going to tell him the final resolution of the riddle and would get the poor priest some relief that way… even though the obsessed gnome would probably soon find something different, the whispers told him about, to fret.


End file.
